Coffee

One of those things

- the future in a dream.

I sit drinking cappuccino,

dawn rises amber and I

imagine the liquid

all gone.

An hour stretches

from milk to empty cup;

this day, week and year, this life

until my coffee drains

the past into a dream.

One of those things.

Song

Open a blind and see what we find;

no worries on what might be lurking behind.

Windows’ wide open, nothing large

will barge us on down if we stand steady,

arms out ready, feet on the ground.

Peep round this wall, nothing will fall

if we play at wizards, walking tall,

dazzling and laughing, wholesome and bright,

igniting a fire on a skittering cloud

and dancing abroad with balance and poise.

Any true voice sings along with the bass

when a melody melts in its time and its place;

we sing all together, harmony strong,

and out from beyond a phenomenal birth

a sounding of earth will resonate through.

So you?

Stranger, you stranger, with every click of the clock,

will you stay with me, now

now and and now

until my little song of life is sung?

Climate Change

Matt and Martha, holding hands on the seashore, steal

a kiss and walk away, defying universal

law and tides, new moon and cause-effect.

Recalcitrant, a higher tide cuts

them off with a lunging silver hiss.

Matt is there, Martha’s there: reaching

water, running feet, waving hands, their cries

for help come unrestrained, again, again.

Who know the rest; when sea as teacher surges

up at regular folk, like you and me, in love?

Peter Pan

Years don’t count when you’re labeled ‘Down’s’

I’ll always be seen as less than nine

-this year, last year- so be at ease

when two wise eyes begin to crease;

keep your compassion or little frowns

and play for hearts - yours and mine!

I won’t get older even when

the classic ages of man appear:

I’m an infant dressed up as a man

loving dancing - loving friends

and although I’m tentative –loud- unclear

and hating darkness - I’ll be a youngster at my very end.

tiny kindling

I decide to build a fire

and pack a rucksack

with huge, brown logs,

then medium sized twigs

and tiny kindling at its top.

When I tip it out

a little spark gets ready to fly

and could catch-on, ignite

if you and I can meet

if I and you aren’t wet.

Happy Down's boy

This barrel-boy is wearing baggy slacks,

surrounded by dolls and each with a colourful tongue.

Toys are laying parallel in beauty

at nighttime lined upon his bedroom floor - guardians.

Outside, the treetops echo calls of doves

but he is chanting only of food he likes.

Food is love, food is life, breath leads to food!

Pillows are friendly and he lays him down a smiling head.

Down's for life

Everything’s brightly coloured for children:

plums taste of purple and language is light.

Recall how we played and laid on the grass,

all sappy with newness bursting through glass

and what if every day opens as May-day

blossoming buds on an evergreen tree;

child-like-ness fired in your brain, never pruned,

like an unfading flourish, radiant for now

- yes for now - but again and again.